


Theory X: D. Winchester on the uses and value of anthropology

by sylvancat



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Humor, Pre-Series, angst stanford era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-26
Updated: 2012-03-26
Packaged: 2017-11-02 13:36:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/369540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sylvancat/pseuds/sylvancat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just another random hookup after a bad hunt. Dean is not missing Sam, nope.<br/>For the prompt  "anthropology majors"<br/>heh. I know all about the uses of anthropology majors. I was one. </p><p>rated R for bad language and worse euphemisms.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Theory X: D. Winchester on the uses and value of anthropology

Disclaimer: Of course, nothing is mine.

Ok, so yeah, Dean didn't really hate colleges. They did some good in the world. Free babysitting when Sam was an angsty angry adolescent and then a teen-just dump him in the library, give him a forged pass to the research archives, and the kid was..well, whatever else he was, Sam was a self-reliant kid, taught that way. Found his own- whatever the guidance counselor said kids needed, verification-no, that's for id, validation, that's it.

Sam got that every time they dumped him at the library with a puzzle to solve. Kid was freaking awesome. like Logan Cale or Max Headroom-knew it all, and so damned proud of himself that John and Dean didn't even discuss it. Sammy did the research. By the time he was thirteen he had a map in his head of the Smithsonian's freaky ass version of Dewey Decimal, the way Dad carried a map of battlefields, the way Dean knew the back roads and back end of America.  
The way they all had a map of Hell, Circles, Thrones, Dominions, all the topography of the fallen bastards in their heads.

By the time he was fifteen Sammy could pass for a college student. Ok, a really nerdy college student but still. Six foot high and growing, he fit in at the library at least.

Not like the college kids that filled the bars. Noisy arrogant stupid kids, full of themselves, full of angst and ambition and excuses. Not a goddamn word from any of them about the family they left behind worrying about them. Missing them. Like when a stupid college student dies of stupid, and decides to blame one Dean Winchester instead.  
p>

He'd heard enough about the dead kid from his friends, missed classes, missed tests, and a helluva lotta missed calls on his fancy new Ipod that his family sent him with preloaded minutes so he could damned well call them once in a which. The kind of kid that blame their grades on alcohol and stress get themselves killed and then blame, well, pretty much everybody. Teachers, students, bartenders, roommates, TAs.. and Dean.  
Flung a shovel at his head. Didn't miss _that._

Sucker was toast now. Loser. Shoulda spent more time in the library, and the Library Bar across from campus. The TA here was the kind that gets an ampersand in the middle.  
T&A. Not bad, not bad at all. Looking pretty good right behind him there. But the talk kinda turned him off. 

A whole table full of earnest Anthropology majors-suckers Dean tried to avoid, unless he needed to pick their brains. They talked about folklore, gods and demons, shamans, urban legends. Artifacts, ritual. Mass or McDonalds? (yeah, Dean had wondered that a time or too himself.) Bone trauma. The physical evidence of pain, years on.

Sam shoulda gone into Anthropology-he’d had a hell of a head start. Figured puzzle boy- and no, he totally didn’t spell that pussyboy in his head. No point in it, with Sam not here to whine about it- went into law instead. As far opposite the life they’d had as his little brother could get. 

That didn’t hurt. Not like the freaking shovel connecting with his head. That hurt. Had him missing Sam, just because, y’know, Sam was missing. And the way the gig worked- should work. Yeah.

If Dean's brother had stood there with him, where he belonged, instead of sitting in the library trying to figure out law instead of lore, well. Fucking ghost mighta missed Dean with that shovel. That hurt.

The Anthro majors were cute though. In that T&A way. And really drunk. Horny too. They were giggling about bifurcated penises now. Dean got that. Some really interesting coming of age rituals out there. People are crazy.

But shit, like Dean wanted to talk about superstitions and lore and ritual when the job was done and he‘d survived. Not. 

He wanted to celebrate. Drink too much, fall down and feel no pain. Preferably with someone. Not someone who got all pissy about the job, or the injuries. Anthro major wouldn’t do that. Hell no, they don't mind dirt or smells or wounds. They’d look at his scars and talk about soft tissue and scarred processes, and laugh.

They shouldn't laugh. They weren’t cute enough to laugh at that shit. Not tonight, when the only one-live or dead- still missing anything was Dean, missing his wingman. 

Dean downed his third drink. Or maybe his fourth- who's counting, these days?  
Time to look for an English major. Not theater, too much drama even for a one-night stand. Maybe music. Art. A girl who could do with her hands what Dean would do with his tongue. 

Passion, that’s what he needed tonight. Warm him right up, inside and out, just like the booze Dean poured down his throat. Not a goddam anthropology major poking at the shit Dean lived with every fucking day, analyzing it for deeper meaning, like it was nothing but class notes. 

Like a wendigo’s hunger has deeper meaning. Or a goddam poltergeist’s murder attempts, when you need to know about the deeper meaning of that, you need to get out of the damn business. Like Sam did. 

Dean didn’t need to think about anthropology tonight. Or a bunch of Anthropology majors, no matter how cute and drunk and horny they were.

Sick of it, sick of going around and around, Dean emptied his beer, pushed his way to the back for a cigarette. The door banged shut on the noise of college kids all full of themselves and a bunch of other shit that didn’t matter. 

In the sudden quiet, Dean nodded to the other exiles with their glowing cherries and cloudtrails all around them. Lit up, drew the smoke into his lungs and leaned against the wall. Didn’t wince at all when the bricks dug into the bruises on his back. He coulda been a badass Indigenous Person. (hear that, Sam? You really think they‘d rather be IPs than Indians? Sounds like a computer part. Indians? too cool for lame acronyms from whitebread anthropology majors.)

Dean could do the Sundance with strips of hide hanging off his chest. Sioux had nothing on Winchesters when it came to dancing through the pain. Dance around and around, step and step and step, all day and then all night. Winchesters had practice. Not so much with the fasting.  
But he could eat. Tonight he'd find what he craved to eat, something soft and pink, quivering under his lips and tongue. His mouth curved up. Some dances Dean just never had to dance alone. 

The girl leaning against the opposite wall in the alley was tall and curvy, wore her makeup just on the right side of bimbo, dressed all in black like it was a fashion statement instead of mourning. She watched him light his cigarette, watched his lips wrap around it, watched his tongue tracing over them, watched like she was as hungry for it as Dean was. 

She pulled her cigarette away from her mouth, watching him. Her tongue followed it out, ran across her redred lips just like Dean’s did, watched him watching her. _Now that’s what I’m talkin about. Dean Winchester. Hunter. Sun Dancer. Babe Magnet._

He grinned at her. 

“Hot in there.” 

She grinned back. “Thought I‘d come out and cool off- but it‘s pretty hot out here too.”

He was so in. 

"You go here too?" He jerked his head in the general direction of campus, and she nodded, crossing over to his side of the alley, still looking cool. He turned to face her, mirrored her cool. Right in step. He knew this dance.

“For my sins. What’s your major?“ 

"Geology." For the rocks in his head, Sammy would say. Hers would be Art or something, dressed like that it had to be. Maybe even Theater, but hell. He could deal with the drama for one night because, yeah, passion.

"Rocks. Nice." She smiled, slow and sweet. "I’m into Anthropology.”

Dean choked. _Dammit._  
The girl (and what the everloving _hell_ does a girl like that go into anthropology for anyway?) read that tiny sound right, and smirked at him.

“You do know what Anthropology is all about, don‘t you?”

Shit. He so didn‘t want to talk about Anthropology. 

He leered a little, tried to sound disinterested, hoping she’d cut the lecture short. “Not really, no.” 

She leaned close, smiling up at him. That cigarette slid between her lips again, and and she took a deep deep draw on it. Dean watched, fascinated by the movements of lips wrapping around that butt.  
Yeah. She was smokin’. With or without tobacco.  
Anthropology major or not, she could have a drag on his pipe anytime.

Her voice dropped low and sultry, going straight to his dick despite her pedantic tone. 

“Anthropology is the study of Man-“ she paused, eyes sliding up and down Dean’s body appreciatively “ _after_ he became erect.” 

And just like that, Dean changed his mind. 

Oh yeah. Dean Winchester is totally into Anthropology majors.


End file.
